


The great collaboration

by Imboredshootthewall, jamesraoulsilva



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Silva, AU, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Weird crossovers?, Yeah this kind of happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imboredshootthewall/pseuds/Imboredshootthewall, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/pseuds/jamesraoulsilva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A private detective and a master cyberterrorist. They would not have met if it wasn't for their unhappy circumstances - both have in common that something is taken from them.</p><p>Post-Skyfall (Silva's resurrection), post-Reichenbach (Sherlock's resurrection).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The blond and the brunet

**Chapter 1 - The blond and the brunet**

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t good old Tiago… Isn’t that what they used to call you?”

The man who has been spoken to looks down, hiding his uncomfortableness caused by that name. The brunet had just set foot in the blond’s apartment – not unexpected, but the blond would rather that he would not have come. This meant that there was something wrong.

The blond retorts, “You are not privileged to call me that, Mr Holmes. Resurrected from the dead as well.” He finally looks up, his mouth twisted in an unpleasant grin. “You remind me of someone.”

Sherlock Holmes grinned slowly. “I am privileged with a great mind and so are you. You are one of the only ones out there who manage not to bore me within three minutes of a conversation.”

“You must not talk a lot then, Mr Holmes. All that social stuff, so dull, so dull.” “Talking is inferior to thinking,” the dark-haired man responds. “You should know that better than anyone.” He closes his eyes and smiles, the blond regarding him carefully, waiting for him to go on.

“Have you been having vengeful thoughts again, Mr Silva? You know, that is so bad for your heatlh.”

Raoul Silva slowly answers, “I find it hard to convince someone with just thinking and not speaking, Mr Holmes. And, believe me – I know what is bad for my health.” He grins, showing a flash of too perfect white porcelain teeth. “I’ve been in hospitals longer than you’ve been in mortuaries.”

The brunet quickly responds, “Tell me something I do not already know. I do realise that this is a very difficult thing to do, so, I shall not be too harsh on you.” The blond rolls his eyes. “Where is your beloved James now, Tiago?” the brunet asks. “Did he leave you?”

The blond’s eyes glint, anger hiding in the dark depths, but he counters with a sort of grin, “Does your John know you are alive?”

Sherlock grins, surprised, amused, annoyed and voices his thoughts. “You do seem to know a lot more than I gave you credit for -” the blond taps his laptop “- however, that is not very hard, taking into consideration the credits I gave you.”

Silva sarcastically says, “Oh, something to do with hacking the most secure system in Britain. I see you are a pessimist then.” He looks up at the brunet from under dark, long lashes.

This elicited a chuckle from the brunet. “Ah yes, good, good, you are exciting. Not so boring as Moriarty.” He sneers a little at that name. “He ended up blowing his brains out just to see me suffer. He was a fool. He needed me to decrypt the government’s secret messages, but I see you could spread panic and disaster within minutes.” He takes a breath and is about to continue, when the blond interrupts him. “Minutes? Still not giving me credit, I see.”

Sherlock ignores him, slightly turns away with his eyes squinted a little, then mutters, “Too bad though...”

Silva stands up, slowly, his voice calm. “What’s too bad?” Sherlock turns around and laughs, showing his back to the other man. “Oh come on now, I thought you were exciting. What is it like in your funny little brain? It must be so boring...” The blond advances at these words, standing tall – the men are of the same height, so he lowers his voice, giving his words a sharp edge. “If I gave you a look into my brain, Mr Holmes, you wouldn’t survive. How clever you might be.”

The brunet turns to face him, face serious, done with the games. “You have something of mine. I want it back. And I have something of yours.”

Blond’s jaw clenches – he thought so but he wasn’t sure. He’s not planning on showing it, so he carefully asks, “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Sherlock looks back, _body language – standing straight jaw clenching fists clenching_ , seeing right through him. He decides to play along, but the sadness in his face is honest. “So, you do not know where... John is?”

The blond’s eyes narrow and he has no idea. “Maybe I do.” Suddenly he catches on, not able to hide a surprised look on his face and he tenses. “You weren’t... You weren’t thinking about a _trade_?”

“Listen.” The dark-haired man closes his eyes. “I know what it is like to have someone you care more about than anything in the world. I know we both thought we would never be able to feel such a strong emotion, being the kind of people we are. We are very much alike, Mr Silva.” He squeezes his eyes shut even more. “I would never take someone you care about so much away from you.” Eyes open. “I am not a monster.”

Silva steps closer carefully, acknowledging the man’s words. “If not him, what do you have that belongs to me? If I was missing something, I would know – nothing in my life is superfluous.” “I do not have anything.” The realisation quickly dawns. “Mycroft does, he is basically the British government, as you know,” the brunet finishes.

The blond’s mouth falls open a little. “Your _brother_ has James?” He steps closer, anger burning evidently in his dark eyes. “Answer me.”

Greenish brown meeting the dark – concern in both pair of eyes. Sherlock says, “Mycroft, that damned fool Mycroft. He said James was getting too big of a risk, he said he would endanger our nation. Mycroft is very dramatic.” Suddenly the man explodes and he yells, “Bloody idiot!”

He gets a sarcastic laugh in return. “James, a danger to England? Oh, he was wrong, maybe I am, but James is not.” _Done_ , shoots through his mind and he instinctively advances, grabbing the thin man’s coat by the lapels. “Tell me,” he growls in front of the pale face, “where does your brother live.”

Sherlock grins slowly. “You do not have to tell me that, Mr Silva, I am aware of that. I am willing to help you, if you help me. You have my word.” He pushes the other man away and looks him in the eye. “Where is John?”

The other man stumbles back at the impact but quickly regains his composure. He straightens his jacket and looks back. “I don’t know. What I think now, however, is that your brother has him as well. Two birds, one stone, no?” The brunet’s eyes narrow. “Would you be able to find out?”

A sigh in return. “Give me your brother’s address, so I can look up his IP address and start looking.” He looks at the other man for a response, but he sees the other man clasps his hands together, raising them in front of him and he stays silent for a while. Silva starts his computer, while waiting.

His patience isn’t strained very long. “Mycroft is at the Baskerville military base. He stays there. He eats there, he sleeps there.” “Is there somewhere he likes to go in his spare time? Mr Detective?” The brunet looks up, apparently not offended by this sneer, and he looks at the other man who is busy plugging cables into his laptop, and he smiles up at him. “No matter where Mycroft is, or what _secret_ mission he is on, he will always go the Diogenes club. 10 Carlton House Terrace, London, SW1Y 5AH.”

Silva nods in response. “I can work with that.” He starts typing away, in his element. This is something he can do, something he can focus on.  His train of thought is interrupted, when the brunet laughs, “what a bloody fool he is.” The blond slowly asks, “Tell me, how long haven’t you seen John?”

Sherlock looks at him, but Silva is staring at the screen, brow furrowed in concentration. “You _are_ smart. Asking me how long I haven’t seen John, not the other way around. I have not seen John for two weeks now.” After a few seconds, the reply is, “so he doesn’t know you are alive?”

The brunet’s turn to sigh. “No, not yet. But he is ready – I need him to know. I went looking for him, but he had disappeared. Oh, brilliant Mycroft, brilliant. Brilliant impression of an idiot.”

Silva’s eyes widen and he looks up from the screen. “Obviously...” he corrects himself quickly, “well, you probably already know this, but Mycroft has taken advantage of that fact. Lured John to him with some rumour of your well-being, I think, but why... why James, then?” He shakes his head.

The dark-haired man stares in front of him, eyes unfocused, staring into emptiness. “Oh... Oh! Stupid. Stupid!” He slaps his head. “Mr Silva...” “Hmm?” The blond is staring at his screen again. “Do you not realise what Mycroft his doing?”

Silva’s reply is soft, dangerous, voice dragging. “Well, apparently I don’t.” Sherlock smirks, not acknowledging the other man’s response. He remembers something John once said to him, years ago. “Mycroft is putting us against each other. He knew I would think you had John and he would have expected me to act in the cruel way I used to act, before John had taught me to act differently. Mycroft apparently was not aware of this fact.”

“Well stop your bloody smiling and look what I found here.” The brunet looks at the screen, waiting for the other man to go on. “Apparently Mycroft withdrew money in that pub, too much to spend on drinking so it’s safe to assume he didn’t want to leave a trail. He has probably taken them somewhere.” Silva intently looks at the other man’s face, whose eyes are flying over the screen. His reply is slow. “He would need to take them somewhere I would not be able to find them, or at least, not easily. Mycroft is a fool, but he is my brother. We share the same blood.”

Silva mutters back, “well, that’s not helpful.” He sighs. “A place where you would not find them. Do you think he’s thought of where _I_ would look?” The brunet finally looks back at Silva, an amused look on his face. “No, and that’s exactly my point, Mr Silva! He would never have expected us to work together, and quite frankly, this was not the way I would have planned things to go either.” He grins, before he finishes, “It is working out quite well.”

The blond retorts, “Well, same here. So, mr Detective, what do you think we should do? We could go to that pub and track them, or we can predict their movements.” “Well, what is our greatest strength? Acting, or thinking?”

Silva regards his partner-in-crime with cold eyes. “Stop your joking then and sit down here so we can... think of something.” He drums the table – a nervous gesture, a tic he can’t seem to get rid of. “So. What do we know? Your brother supposedly holds John and James.” Silva shakes his head, before sharing his confusion, “why the hell would James go to him?”

Sherlock thoughtfully responds, “you know James better than I do. Is there something James would go to him for? Did Mycroft threaten him or did he lure him in with a lie?” He looks at the blond, whose jaw clenches when he answers. “He couldn’t have threatened him. Not that the alternative is pretty.”

His long fingers stop drumming the table and turn into a fist; he smacks the table and mutters to himself, “that would mean he lost his trust in me..?”

Sherlock leans forward. “Mr Silva, you know better than I do that James cares more about you than anything out there. He would not betray you. But once someone plants an idea... in here-” he gently taps the blond’s forehead “- it cannot be exterminated. I should know...” His voice trails off before he continues, not noticing the other man’s angry stares because of the touch, “did you know that John lost faith in me? Even if it was for just a few seconds.”

The blond man’s eyes narrow and he says, “when you... jumped. Or fell. Yes, I know.” He sighs. The brunet stands up and sits down again in a chair next to the blond. “Would it be possible that James is with Mycroft at this very moment... out of free will?” Sherlock asks carefully. Silva looks at him, “Does your brother dabble in cheap alcohol?” immediately followed by a sigh and the blond rubs his eyes. “I wouldn’t know.”

Sherlock keeps looking at him when he says, “listen, I am sorry. Coming from me, this is a big thing, you know that.” He looks away with a sympathetic look before he continues. “I think I have some ideas... But I will have to go to my mind palace first.”

The blond rolls his eyes and sighs. “Do whatever you need to do. If you want a quiet place, look around my apartment here somewhere.” He motions around with his hands. “I’ll be here.”

The brunet doesn’t respond, but instead stands up and walks to one of the corners of the room, where he takes of his coat, revealing a violin case underneath. The blond stares at him but doesn’t speak, not wanting to interrupt the other man. Sherlock opens the case, carefully takes out the violin and gently places his long, pale fingers on the strings. He starts playing Tchaikovsky’s Meditation in D Minor, and it doesn’t take long for the blond to recognise the music – his eyes widen and he leaves his laptop alone, patiently listening to the music until the other man is done playing.

The blond has to admit – it is a sight, the other man gently, slowly moving with the rhythm and melody of the music, his eyes closed completely: an expression of full concentration on his face. After a while he carefully plays the last high note and gently places the violin in the case. He quickly wipes away a small tear, a split second too late so the blond notices it. He doesn’t say anything; he eyes the brunet, wondering if he can speak again.

After a few seconds of silence, Silva whispers, “it reminds you of him, doesn’t it.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. Sherlock clenches his fists and lets out a frustrated, sad sigh. “Why can’t we, the four of us, just be left alone, why can’t we live happy lives like the others.”

The blond almost sneers, his sarcasm kicking in before he realizes this is not the time. He knows that the other man knows that life isn’t fair, but he doesn’t look like he needs to hear that right now. So, Silva carefully says, “Because they lack what you and John have, what James and I have.” He searches for words, to explain the connection, but Sherlock walks back in Silva’s direction and sits down where he sat moments before. “I guess it is true what Mycroft told me once. Caring is not an advantage.”

It stays silent for a moment; the weight of the words pressing on their shoulders, both realising that they made the choice to care long ago, with the risk of a heartache so great life isn’t worth living. Both men gladly accepted that risk; the advantages weigh out the disadvantages.

The brunet softly says, “Well... I know... where they are.” Silva’s eyes light up and sits up straight, his fingers start drumming the armrests frantically. “What are we waiting for, let’s go, let’s go-” he stands up while speaking but is interrupted by Sherlock. “Wait, Silva... wait. You need to know first...”

The blond turns around, eyes blazing. “What,” he demands. “James is with Mycroft, out of free will. Mycroft has lured him in with a lie. He told James I was a fake detective and a murderer and I need to get caught, since my suicide was a set-up. He asked James for a safe place where they could hide John from me, so that I would not hurt him.”

A cold feeling starts creeping up the blond’s spine – he suddenly has a surmise where Mycroft is keeping the two men. Sherlock slowly asks, “Do you understand what I’m saying...”

Silva throws his hands in the air, mouth twisted. “Yes. If you go in there, James will kill you. Great.” He has to bite his tongue to keep back the insults he wants to voice – no use for them. “Why must he be so protective, damn it, and believe Mycroft,” the blond mutters. However, he realises it’s in James nature to protect; it’s his work, it’s embedded in every fibre of his being.

“Mycroft can be very convincing.” “Apparently,” Silva snorts in reply. He clicks his tongue. “John probably carries a picture of you and Mycroft got him to show James.” The blond starts pacing up and down in front of the brunet. “So we can’t disguise you, James will see through.”

“James is a very skilled man. He is best at what he does.” Sherlock places his hands on his face, starts massaging his forehead. _There must be a simple solution_.

“You’re telling me. Come on Holmes, you are the detective here! Don’t you have any more brilliant ideas?” Sherlock sighs. “Do you think you can convince James?” Silva looks down at the man, his annoyance clearly visible on his face. “Of course. I’m just fearing he did something of the like to John. Convince him that I’m the villain here.” The blond smiles a crooked smile.

Sherlock looks up. “There is one thing you are missing. There is one thing that would never, ever happen. James would never fail to trust you, John would never fail to trust me. After my unlucky fall, John kept believing in me. James has always believed in you, has he not?”

One, two, three seconds it remains silent, then the men simultaneously speak. “Well, that took some time-” “There may have been moments of doubt-” “But yes, I am positive of that,” Silva finishes. “Why’s that?”

“Think of this,” Sherlock starts. “James and John are with Mycroft, together. James is convinced I am alive, a fake detective and a murderer. And that John is under his protection.” “I got that.” “John is not conscious,” the brunet continues, undisturbed. “He is knocked out, or else he would ruin the plan. Mycroft has this drug, he had used it on me before... If John was conscious, he would tell James that I am of no harm.”

Silva considers this, before he carefully replies. “Well, the fact that John is unconscious makes it easier.” He makes a quick apologetic gesture before he explains, “if I go in first and you come in later.”

Sherlock nods. “Exactly. Elementary, my dear Silva.” “Cut the crap,” the blond retorts, “what are we waiting for. Let’s go.”

The two men walk towards the door, Sherlock leading, Silva following. The brunet mutters, “It’s on,” before the blond shuts the door behind him and they walk out on the street, squinting their eyes against the harsh sunlight.


	2. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silva and Sherlock find their better halfs, in a place that holds enough memories already.

**Chapter 2 – Release**

A grey, shining Aston Martin DBS stands outside Silva’s apartment. It’s reflecting the sunlight – Sherlock’s eyes start to shine. “Get in,” the blond says, nodding towards the car. The brunet carefully opens the passenger door and says, “a brilliant piece of equipment you got here.”

“Thank you,” is the uninterested response. “Can you fix the navigation?” “Right.” Silva turns the key, firing up the engine, the car roaring. Sherlock nods, barely managing to hide his excitement about the car. Silva looks at him before he hits the gas, making his way out of the street. The man looks out of place, seated in the expensive leather, his fingers flying over the screen of the navigation excitedly.

Silva relaxes, comfortable in the expensive car, when Sherlock says, “They are at the headquarters of MI6. Not very imaginative, if you ask me. But then again, Mycroft has never been a man with a very interesting mind.”

Silva hit the brakes, almost giving the other man a whiplash. The blond stares at him, voice raised. “I know I told you to get to the car quickly but come on, you could’ve mentioned it was MI6! You know the whole of Britain’s service is looking for me right?” He takes out his phone from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and starts typing away – MI6’s security is turned off within seconds. The blond mumbles, “what a bother,” before he puts his phone away and starts driving, switching the navigation off. He could find the way to the SIS Vauxhall building with his eyes closed.

Sherlock grins. “Don’t you see that me not telling you earlier is a compliment? I did not foresee it would be of a big problem to you.” The blond looks at him with a deadly stare, but decides to let it go, focusing on the road before him. “Well it’s an honor to get a little more credit from you, mr Mastermind,” the sarcasm richly seeping through his words. “Cabrón,” Silva mumbles. The brunet chuckles and mutters back, “hijo de perra.”

The blond’s grip around the steering wheel tightens at the other man’s words. “Sí, lo soy.” He takes a deep breath before he continues, “almost there.” Sherlock clenches his fist. “So I see.”

Silva drives straight towards the parking lot and turns the engine off, then quickly steps out of the car and slams the door shut. Sherlock also gets out of the car, carefully closing the door, then walks to Silva and gives him a small device with a single button. The blond regards it curiously before he asks, “what’s this?” “Press this once when I can come in,” the brunet explains, “twice if you are in danger. Just to be safe.”

Silva nods, “alright,” before he breathes out, shaking a bit. “Where is he?” Sherlock looks at Silva, then slowly says, “The only place this could all end. M’s office.” Silva looks him straight in the eye, his voice dangerous. “Don’t do that.” He proceeds to walk away, before he mutters to himself, “wait damn it.” He walks back to the car’s trunk, which he opens to reveal a gun case. He takes out a Glock 17, then raises an eyebrow towards the brunet. “Do you need anything?”

The response is a slight smile; the brunet grabs a small, portable umbrella from his pocket and shows it. “I have all I need.” “Impressive.” “You have no idea,” Sherlock laughs. Silva closes the trunk and starts walking and when he reaches the exit of the parking lot, he yells back, “are you coming or what,” before turning towards the building again.

Sherlock mutters to himself, “we could have been great friends in different circumstances.” He quickly follows Silva, who enters the building through a backside entrance; the door is password protected but Silva swiftly enters the code, holding the door open for Sherlock.

The blond ignores the lifts once inside and walks towards the stairs, quickly ascending them. “Are you coming?” “I am right behind you,” is the response. The brunet follows Silva up the stairs, swinging his umbrella around. Soon Silva gains some distance on him and he yells back over his shoulder, “Mierda, you are slow.” Meanwhile Sherlock is following Silva slowly, in an almost childlike way, touching the banisters. The blond barks back, “You’ll have time to appreciate the architecture later!” Sherlock looks up at the man, and quickly walks up the last few steps and joins the other man in front of M’s office. “You’re right.”

“So, here we are,” Silva sighs. Sherlock’s face hardens, all humour fading away. “You can do this. Your James is in there.” The blond suddenly turns towards him and says in an insisting tone, “I hate to ask this, but I have to.” He looks the brunet dead in the eye. “Do you care for your brother’s life?”

Sherlock sighs in response. “I saw this coming... Caring is not an advantage. I would trade Mycroft for John any day. If you have it in you to let him live, do so. If you feel the necessity to do otherwise, then do what you have to do.” He nods slowly. Silva breathes out, tightens his lips and then says, “Alright. I will do my best... It would be best if you moved out of sight a little. You can see the whole hallway from her office.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and moves away. “Your knowledge is crucial. Good luck in there.” The blond gives him a sharp nod before turning on his heel, kicking the door open, gun raised. He quickly takes in the surroundings; James is tied to a chair, gagged, and John is lying in a corner – he is obviously drugged – and a man, who can only be Mycroft, is holding a knife against his throat. The man speaks and a jolt of recognition shoots through Silva’s spine – his voice sounds like Sherlock’s.

“Well, hello there, Raoul.” The blond doesn’t lower his gun, but instead demands, “Release him.” He quickly makes eye contact with James and what he sees frightens him – he looks barely awake, slumped forward in the restraints, his skin quite an unhealthy colour. Silva barks again, “I said _release him_!”

Mycroft laughs, bobbing his head a little in the process. “Oh, and why would I possibly want to do that?” Silva sighs and narrows his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, do you. Now step away.” He jerks his head to the side, flexing the muscles in his neck when he sees Mycroft does not offer up to release John. “I would do that,” Mycroft says and the tiniest flame of hope lights up in Silva’s chest to be immediately put out when the man continues, “but that does not seem like a good deal to me. Go ahead. Shoot me. Kill me. Shoot me and you will never find out what poison I shot in Mr Bond’s arm, the same poison that is now running through his veins, slowly destroying his body.”

The flame is out – replaced by the feeling of cold hatred towards the man and fear; cold sweat starts running down the blond’s back. He quickly exchanges a glance with James, who nods. The blond bites his lip, one hand travelling down his pocket, which holds the device Sherlock gave him. He waits to see if Mycroft notices, but he is staring at James with a perverse grin on his face, when he speaks again. “Being that you are here, you probably met my brother. Knowing him, he did not trust you. Knowing you, you managed to either kill or hurt him badly. Which was it?” Mycroft raises his eyebrows, still not looking at Silva.

The blond narrows his eyes, before he slowly says, “seriously maimed,” then he presses the device twice – it meant danger, not safe to come in. Sherlock felt the device vibrate twice in his pocket and grabs his umbrella, walking very carefully and quietly towards the office.

Silva starts explaining in detail the pretended torture he gave Sherlock – none of it true of course, but he has to do something while he waits for Sherlock to come in, while he waits for the distraction. He is not sure what to do, he doesn’t want to shoot Mycroft, since he still doesn’t know with what he poisoned James. The moment Sherlock steps into the office and lifts his arm, the umbrella clasped in his hands, he realises the brunet could probably find out – then Sherlock presses a small button on the umbrella and a small dart hits Mycroft in the neck. He falls down, yelling.

Silva flings his gun away and runs towards Mycroft, frisking him and finds a rope – he ties his hands with it. “Help me, he’s kicking,” he yells over his shoulder to Sherlock. The brunet quickly joins him and holds him while the muscle-paralysing drug from the dart kicks in. “He’s going to pass out.” Sherlock looks at James and nods towards him, “he has been poisoned, has he?” He wasn’t able to hear the whole conversation when he was standing in the hallway – he wasn’t able to fully concentrate either, he was too worried.

Silva doesn’t respond and walks to James when he’s done tying the brunet’s brother, quickly ungagging and untying him, before cupping his face in his hands. “James. What did he give you?” James manages to nod towards a syringe before he passes out in Silva’s arms. “Damn it!” Silva yells. “Can you analyse these kind of things?”

Sherlock nods confidentially, “Mycroft did not expect me to be alive, or being hurt to the point that I would not be able to get here, so he used his favourite drug, not fearing that you would find out what it was. But I know.” The blond is shaking his head, run out of patience, annoyed be the other man’s lengthy response and dangerously says, “Tell. Me. What I need to give him so he _won’t die!_ ”

The brunet’s hand starts travelling towards his long coat’s inner pocket. “I always carry an antidote. Sharing a bedroom with a teenage Mycroft has taught me that much.” He hands Silva the antidote; it’s a small bottle filled with a brown liquid. “He must drink this... now... please...” He shakes his head and quickly walks towards John, wrapping his arms around him.

Silva mumbles a thank you but the other man is out of earshot; the brunet is rubbing John’s cheeks and rests his head on the other man’s head. Silva tries to give James the antidote, which is troubling since James is knocked out cold. After a while he succeeds in giving him the antidote and he sighs, finally looking at the other two men curled up in a corner of the office. “What’s wrong with John?”

The brunet lifts his head and looks up at the blond, still stroking John’s cheek. “It depends on when he got drugged... The type of drug he got will not do any damage, it just knocks him out for a few hours.” Sherlock sighs and looks at John’s face, the longing clearly visible in his features. “I just... I haven’t touched him for so long.”

Silva rubs James’ cold hands between his – the way Mycroft had tied him strangulated his blood stream, leaving his hands freezing and almost blue. “I know the feeling,” he mutters in response. He looks at Sherlock and asks, after a pause, “when will James wake up?” The brunet slowly lets go of John and walks to James, deducting while looking at him.

“In just a few minutes, not more.” “Gracias a dios,” the blond whispers in return, still clutching James’ hands between his own. Sherlock nods and says, “yes, we are lucky Mycroft shares his brains with Anderson.” Upon realisation Silva might not know Anderson, he quickly adds, “meaning, he is an imbecile.” “Yeah, I got that,” is the response, but the blond seems not to pay attention to him anymore, instead looking at James who is slowly regaining consciousness. Sherlock smiles at the two of them, without Silva noticing and walks back to John, pressing his own body gently against his, warming the smaller man up.

Silva cups James’ face in his hands and starts whispering to him softly, while James is starting to wake up completely. The blond starts stroking his cheek, speaking meaningless words to him, trying to get him to open his eyes.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looks at John, hesitating. He looks at the other two men and both seem completely unaware of their surroundings – when he sees that, he swiftly kisses John’s lips, then wraps his arms tightly around him. He buries his face in the smaller man’s chest and starts sobbing very quietly. “I am not dead. I am not a fake. I am not dead. I am not a fake... I... I’m not... dead.” He opens his coat and wraps it around them both, John being still cold.

James gets pulled in a quick embrace by Silva when he’s finally awake, then the blond turns to Sherlock and doubts for a second, but then speaks. “We should take them home.” Sherlock looks up and nods. “I think we should take them to 221B. I have had Molly store my equipment there. I have some meds which will make James feel a lot better. He is not in any danger, but as you can see, he is still quite weak and he has a bit of a fever. This is all a small side effect from the antidote, but I can ease his pain.”

James scowls at his words a little, but then breaks into a coughing fit as to affirm the brunet’s words. The blond nods, “let’s do that. By the way, he-” he nods at James before turning back to Sherlock “-knows who you _actually_ are.”

Sherlock looks at James and smiles slightly. “Good... That’s good.” He tightens his lips and looks back at John. “I shall carry him down the stairs, he is not very heavy... He’s not been eating well since Reichenbach,” he adds explanatory. Silva sighs and responds, “I see.” He looks at James and cocks an eyebrow. “Can you walk?” James looks at him and nods, but the blond shakes his head. “You’re so stubborn, come on.” He hoists James up and half carries-half drags him to the door. James huffs, “how romantic,” when Silva stops in his tracks and turns.

“What are we going to do with your brother?” the blond asks, the doubt clearly visible on his face. Sherlock inhales deeply as he regards his brother, lying paralysed on the ground. Silva raises an eyebrow. The brunet breathes out audibly and says, “we can’t just kill him. He is the British government. It would create troubles which are not worth our time and effort.” He closes his eyes for a few seconds, then continues, “I shall set up a trap for him, ruin his career and he will never be able to do anything more than clean toilets in McDonald’s.”

Silva nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “Sounds about right for him, his level of intelligence, no?” “Yes, he spends enough time out there anyway, if you look at his... physique.” The brunet winks and then adds, “diets and my brother, not a very good combination.” Silva lets out a short laugh, before he turns serious again and carefully says, “You better make sure he doesn’t try something like this again. Are we just going to leave him here?” “I shall swear on my life...” the brunet says before he stands up and walks over to his brother, “Mycroft will never be able to do anything like this again. I might be a highly functioning sociopath but I can turn into a ruthless psychopath anytime I feel like it.”

He steps on both of Mycroft’s feet, breaking them both with a terrifying sound. The blond doesn’t look away, but lets go of James for a second to be able to step forward and place one hand firmly on Sherlock’s shoulder for a second, before he turns away and grabs James again.

A small smile forms on Sherlock’s lips at the touch. He walks back to John and picks him up, before walking to Silva and breathing out, releasing some of the tension that build up. The blond smiles at him and then looks at James, who casually draped one arm around Silva’s shoulders. “Let’s go,” the blond mutters. He starts walking out of the office, towards the stairs. Sherlock nods and adds, “the game is over.” He follows the blond down the stairs, careful not to trip.

 


End file.
